


these tornadoes are for you

by theankletattoo



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Drabble, Established Relationship, First Dates, Inner Dialogue, Louis Tomlinson is Afraid of Love, M/M, Self-Indulgent, poetic horny if that makes sense, shout out to jam ily, there's no smut but the writing is very very horny, these tags are a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:34:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27106540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theankletattoo/pseuds/theankletattoo
Summary: He touches him like a religion. Touch feather light, eyes alight with such strong devotion, he feels tears brim his own ocean blues, all the air punched out of him and sometimes it teeters over the edge of too much and it aches.louis finds home in harry.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	these tornadoes are for you

His heart beats in peace.

_prism, a white beam_  
_splitting, now a rainbow_

He sits with Harry as he’s getting the tattoo, Pink Floyd’s triangle, he calls it in his mind, holding his hand, playing with his rings— silver, gold, platinum.

He feels the buzz, the line through the prism, it’s dark, black ink, a neat single one. The rays on the other side, he switches the colours.

A rainbow of colours stain his skin, violet, green, orange and red. Harry’s love is violet, he thinks, absent, stroking his wrist, images of petals unfurling, silk under his fingers, a tongue heavy and licking into his mouth, swiping at his teeth, claiming.

Violet is his name in Harry’s mouth.

 _The tattoo is sore_ , he says, mouth puckered up, pink and bitten.

 _I know_ , he replies, fingers spread out over his elbow, holding.

They keep walking home, the snow is melting, puddles of murky water, splashing over their boots, winter is dying and they’re beginning to come alive again.

 _Again_.

_you’re kneeling in the driveway_  
_somewhere pretty_

Summer had been hot and sticky, he met Harry in all of his stupid dorky self. Rimless glasses low on his face, curls hastily tied behind with a bright orange hair tie, high cheekbones tinted rouge from the sun.

Two books he held in his hand, silver and gold rings flashing. Crush and Tamerlane, shirt half buttoned, display of smooth winter pale skin, slowly turning darker, browner.

Crush— he knew what was in there, the boys, the war, the tragedy. The stitched up train tracks, the mouths and tongues, explosions of hungry love. Gravel under knees, digging into darkened skin, scrapes, band aids, blood, flesh pink, sky a ribbon of orange and ends of a light blue, so fucking pretty.

The hot flash of arousal, slow burning of love, simmering, thickening, consuming one whole, a crack of bones, release. Painful awareness of an ache, a nostalgia for things never occurred, sepia, glitter and a relieved exhale.

He gave a little of his heart, bit of a muscle, so tender, so new, an offering to someone strangely familiar.

_d e l i r i u m_

He received a phone number in exchange. By the end of his shift, his palm was black, numbers smudged, the scrap of paper sweat hardened, sevens a little crooked.

Texting someone new is always restless, looking once, twice, thrice before leaping— sometimes it’s leaping and falling and jumping off a cliff without looking because you just know.

They feel like a cardigan left under the bed, scent soaked in, a worn out comfort you’ll never find in anything else. They’re like that one birthmark on the back of your thigh, only visible after you strain hard and half naked, bending and flexing with your back turned to the mirror.

Harry doesn’t feel like any of those.

He’s a cross somewhere between fading memories and a fever dream all blending into one big yellow, sparkly, paper with constellations scattering into stars, them burning out to a burst of hydrogen, helium, clouds of dust becoming a nebula.

He is restless energy evolving into something lilac tinged, calming into a violent ocean, unsettled, to a spent out babe, a myriad of emotions flickering past like summer days, aware of everything and nothing, a zap of heat.

_you touch my wrist_  
_red red red_

They met up for a date after two weeks of texting and sharing playlists and Spotify accounts. 

Louis had let him read his writing, borrowed emotions, a rogue word, culminated scars moulded into a trail of stars, mouths breathing galaxies into each others’, stitching them together with a thin golden string, a single thread from a spiderweb, writing about illicit lovers and their strange addiction to each other, deadlier than cyanide, sweeter than jaggery, pulse steady, blood rushing to his head, neck, knees.

Harry keeps his hands to himself for the most part. He has a glass bead bracelet, there’s liquid in it. 

It keeps swirling. Blue, light, underwater, blue.

Harry insists that he walk him back home, hair swooped out of his face, long curls spread over his shoulders, shirt mauve and glossy. He is a vision. 

He wants to be devoured.

 _Almost there_ , he murmured, brushing his hand against Harry’s, knuckles pale and sticking out, veins green.

In front of his flat, with the brown paint peeling from the walls, Lia his neighbour’s cat between their legs, he presses his mouth to the inside of his wrist, surely feeling his heartbeat on his lips.

His heat lingers, cranberries, cherries and pomegranates, Louis thinks.

_inspiration runs red_

His poetry is bright and dark, dripping, not sticky but stark, metallic tang of scarlet, crimson, vermilion. 

He doesn’t dwell on it. Words keep pouring out of him, it’s the swell of his heart, cramping of his wrist, shoulders sore, back hunched, cheek pressed against old ink.

It spills out of him faster than he can wipe away the previous remnants. It stains the pages like the stone floors after a lamb is sacrificed.

His breathing is laborious, there is something alive unfurling in him, burning everything in its wake. 

_The ashes are red too._

_glass h o u s e_  
_five letters, two vowels_

Home is where the heart is, he’s heard before. Where is it home when he has bits of his heart given away, one to his mum, one to his dad, one for his brother, one to Harry.

Home, he comes to a conclusion, is where the silence is not stifling, the one where a hundred memories are made laughing, crying, sleeping, loving.

A secret language that he can’t speak, but can understand, that is home. 

And in a home, there’s love. Everywhere. In the sock drawer, under the spoons, that one creaky stair, crack running down the wall, the newly replaced shiny handle.

Houses are all he had. A childhood home, but it wasn’t his.

There was love stuck to the walls, reflecting back at him, a glass house. His reflection mocks him back there, it’s a gentle one, not meant to harm, yet it doesn’t feel truly his.

_Where is home?_

_fugue_  
_a memory, sepia tinted_  
_forgotten, dusky pink_

He finds home. He doesn’t really remember how or when or where. It might’ve been somewhere when he broke down with Harry by his side, yelling, crying, sharing that he would never give himself over completely.

It was found somewhere between the time where he let him see the grey of him and soaked in colours from Harry.

Harry, sweet, sweet Harry. He made himself a place in his life not by pushing and breaking off pieces of him but he made it by taking his own missing pieces and trying to fill them where he overflowed. 

They were far from perfect but they held together. And sometimes good enough is enough.

He is yellow when he’s kissing him, dusky pink when he’s lying with him, ribs touching, heartbeats synchronised, calm washing over, a tired wave covering them with salt, filling their wounds, hurting enough to tell them they’ve survived, that they’re alive.

The sky is a tender purple, the thin veil of lavender under their eyes after a long day.

So many things he’ll never remember past this day, copper memories keep swirling in the air, stuck to their lungs like pixie dust, floating.

They’re laughing, poking fun at each other, eyes bright, blue, green, sea glass and them.

_angel,_  
_you breathe, hands cold_  
_trembling on my thigh_

Harry calls him a lot of pet names. His favourite is angel. 

There is a sweetness to his face as he calls Louis as his angel. Every tough bone in his body melts, every inch of him turns tender, begging for Harry to bite, to sink in his teeth and mark him up.

He touches him like a religion. Touch feather light, eyes alight with such strong devotion, he feels tears brim his own ocean blues, all the air punched out of him and sometimes it teeters over the edge of too much and it aches. 

It aches so softly, so delicately, he wants it to hurt more, even if it is only to distract him from the pain.

A little blood in his mouth from biting too hard, keeping his words swallowed, their sharp claws scratching as they go down.

They are not burnt out yet.

_you’re still kneeling_  
_it’s pretty._

His knees are pressed against gravel when he asks.

Both of their knees are sunken into gravel when he says yes to a lifetime with him. 

Sometimes though, sometimes he wonders if Harry will ever push and prod and poke until the ugliness in him rears its venomous head. 

He can live with that.

He knows. He will never not want the ugly parts, he wants him whole. The pretty, the ugly, the bruised, the smooth, the healed, and the ripe wounds.

Violet, blue, green, red. Skies, wet asphalt, glass beads, wrinkling photographs and greying words on their mouths, hands, passion bruised hips.

His heart beats in peace.

**Author's Note:**

> abundant of thanks to jam for letting me rant ab shit and letting me text u odd things.


End file.
